


Whip Smart

by Xela



Series: Little Black Dress [6]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Caning, Dark, F/M, M/M, Master/Slave, Mirror Universe, Ownership, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Voyeurism, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk lets Uhura practice her art on Chekov--and Uhura has some very nice whips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whip Smart

Kirk appreciates beauty in all of its forms. The Ancient Masters--Ruben, Manet, Gerccia--visual leaps forward the represent the evolution of Human thought and understanding. The fan dances of Ashinahr. The sword masters of Shi'ih.

Pavel manifests beauty with everything he does. His submission is as finely constructed as any Botticelli, and he bleeds so pretty.

“I want a show,” Kirk decides, fingers drumming against his chin, staring out the main view screen. There's a stunning kind of beauty in chaos, something inherent and indefinable, he thinks, as the world below them shatters gracefully on the view screen. What may have once been a continent sails right across _Enterprise_ 's bow. He gleefully spins around in his chair; there are days he swears the chair is the best part of being Captain.

“Nyota!” She looks at him, expression icier than Hoth during a cold snap. He grins, devil-may-care, knowing it nettles her, digs under her skin. His hand finds the top of Pavel's head unconsciously, used to his presence. “You up for a show?” Pavel stills beneath him, every muscle held taut so he doesn't give any other reaction away. She follows the line of Kirk's hand and her eyes settle on Kirk's slave, hot and dark.

"Absolutely," Uhura says, a seductive predator who's spotted her favorite prey.

***

Noyota's mother once told her she had an artist's soul. She'd been too young to understand what that meant, but the first time she had picked up a whip—felt the weight of the thong against her fingers, heard the sharp snap of the popper against tight skin—she understood. Nothing compares to the sight of a blank canvas, waiting to be marked.

Pavel's back contains endless possibilities, and she barely knows where to start. She could follow the lines of the muscles, map them with the end of her whip and emphasize the natural contours. Or she could put patterns on his skin, esoteric and hypnotizing.

An impatient cough comes from one corner of the room and she spares an irritated glance for Kirk. _You can't rush art, it comes in its own time,_ she doesn't say. It would be wasted on him.

Instead, she puts Kirk out of her mind and approaches her canvas, already stretched and waiting. He twitches as she runs her nails over the play of his back, mapping and learning. She embraces his movements, loves the little swirls of chaos they promise to bring to her work. She feels where her tools will land, plans the form of her art. There are years of honed strength under Pavel's skin, and she wonders if Kirk knows his slave is trained to kill. Probably. Kirk would get off on that.

She leaves all thoughts of Kirk behind and slots into place behind Pavel, presses her front flush against his back. She lets her hands travel the breadth of his chest, artist's hands always learning, though she won't be exploring this territory with her whips. Today, at least.

"Are you ready?" she asks, just to get a reaction. He doesn't disappoint, whimpering low in his throat and his muscles clenching. "I'm going to change you. I'm going to make you living art, give you wings, make you fly and when I'm done..." Her hand drops down and she grins, gratified to find him hot and hard in her hand. "When I'm done, you'll be mine. _Pavel._ " She keeps her voice for his ears alone, because no one is allowed to call him that. Chekov gets loaned out, handed off to staff members at Kirk's whim. _Pavel_ is Kirk's alone, a treasure jealously guarded. But for today, for now, he is hers. Her canvas to paint, her pleasure to give, her slave to break. For today, she allows herself a sense of ownership.

Uhura steps and chooses a velvet-tipped Andorian Whip. It has six tails on two prongs, the handle splitting into two arching sides. Used correctly, it allows her to keep up a fast-paced series of strikes across a broad area of skin. She uses it for prep, like the first pink glaze over an oil painting, the foundation upon which everything else will be built. She has him rocking into her strikes, rhythmic and laying down a warm, light burn. She turns Pavel a light pink from his knees to his neck. She watches his expression in the mirror, positioned to reflect the length of his front. Just over his shoulder she can see Kirk, a dark shadow in the corner.

When he's moaning and panting for her, his entire body tuned to her, she stops. He tries to bite back a plea for more and doesn't quite manage. Nyota feels a thrill at breaking Pavel's studied control, destroying his training with a flick of her wrist.

Even when she switches to the single-tail it's still a warm up. The sting is sharper than the other, the marks darker and more lurid against his skin. She leaves long stripes fanning out from his spine and shoulders, arching down. Some of them curve with sinuous promise; others are staccato punctuation against the pale expanse of Pavel's back. She works quickly and efficiently because she's still laying the foundation of what she wants, the sketch beneath the master work.

She knows instinctively when she's done, when it's time to move on. Pavel is strung out, riding the razor's edge between where pain becomes pleasure, just waiting for her to tip him over. She steps back and enjoys watching him squirm, the muscles of his back pulling against the marks she's left, and he hisses out a breath to try and quell the pain.

She selects a long, supple cane from her collection. It has a quick biting sting and leaves beautiful bruises on supple skin.

She doesn't warn him of the first strike. Instead, she watches his face contort into a silent howl, watches him rock up onto his toes with his back arched, tears gathering in his eyes but not allowed to fall. He's beautiful in his suffering. She catches movement behind her and Kirk's stroking himself, legs spread wide.

She lays six stripes on each side of Pavel's back, from his upper shoulders to where the curve of his ass met his thigh. Each one sends him soaring, high on endorphins, until he's rocking back on his heels to meet the stroke, then flinging forward against he chains that bind him with the force of her tools. The cane marks are dark and purple, contrasting against the pink-red flush she laid down earlier.

Pavel has a set of wings on his back. They arch over his shoulders and down his back. The heavier cane welts form the ridge of the wings and define the pinion feathers. The lighter whip marks come together to create the illusion of feathers, layered over one another. Uhura did as she promised and sent him flying.

She can feel Kirk's possessiveness growing behind her; he doesn't see the beauty or artistry of what she's done, just the small 'N' on the bottom right. She glances back at him, meets his hot, dangerous gaze and drops her eyes. He's killed people for less, and everyone knows Kirk is inordinately attached to this particular slave. Her obvious submission--not something she grants him when not required by her service--is enough to pique his interest and spare her.

There's one instrument that comes wrapped in a velvet sheath. She carefully unwraps it, touching it with the reverence and respect it commands. That's another thing Nyota's mother had taught her: always respect your tools. Respect what they are, what they can do. This cane had been her graduation gift. It's made of a fiber found on Levvi II. It's light and spry, and its kiss _burns._ Slaves call them Dragon Canes.

"Three," she tells Pavel, pressing her hand against the bare stretch of skin on his ass she's chosen. She sketches what she plans to do with her fingers, three sharp lines coming together at specific, precise angles. She pats Pavel one last time and steps back.

The first strike is long and hard; she leaves a perfectly straight four-inch line behind. Pavel screams and pitches forward, his entire body pulsing with pain. He drops his head forward, unable to support it. His sweat-curled hair falls forward. He doesn't know what to do with the pain, and Uhura feels smug that she's the first one to use a Dragon on him.

"Breathe," she advises. Pavel forces a few shallow breaths before he manages a deep one. She gives him time to collect himself; she can't have him moving and ruining her work.

The second strike is just as precise as the first, two inches long and brought down at an angle to the first. Pavel jerks so hard his feet come off the floor, lifted up by the chains around his wrists. His entire body twitches at the sound of her boots on the floor; every little noise translates into a movement, his body primed and ready. This last strike will be exquisite.

Uhura steps back and takes a breath. Then two. She visualizes her next move, where she wants it, just a little to the right of the second, precisely two inches long, coming to rest on the same plane as the bottom of the first mark. There aren't many people in the universe who can do it.

Her hand flies without thought, her mind clear in her top-space. The cane lands true, right where she intends.

She steps back so that Kirk can see her last contribution. It throws off the balance of her work, but it is necessary. Kirk steps up and traces the dark edges of the 'K' she painted into Pavel's skin. Pavel flinches and whimpers; Kirk's fingers are impossibly rough against his abused flesh, the marks dark with blood brought right underneath the first layer of skin.

"Thank you, Nyota," Kirk says. His voice is husky and hungry. He traces the outline of Pavel's wings, but his fingers always drift back down to the K. "You can go now."

Nyota salutes him, but he's far too engrossed in Pavel now to notice. She picks up her instruments, and when her knife gleams in the light she thinks briefly of how easy it would be to slip the knife between Kirk's ribs. She could have it all for herself--Pavel, the ship, the position.

A low plea from Pavel startles her out of her daydreams. She shakes her head and smirks at her own thoughts. Maybe someday, but she likes where she is right now. They have a good thing going here, and she's quite positive that Kirk will be inviting her to play with Pavel again.

The doors close on a string of fervent Russian curses, and Nyota sets off in search of Sulu. He's always down for some fun.


End file.
